Neither Here or There
by pandasize
Summary: In an A/U SAINW where Michelangelo goes back instead of Donatello, April and Donnie find new hope and new love with the return of the youngest turtle. An Apritello one-shot.


_Disclaimer: I do not own TMNT or make money off this fic._

**Summary/ Author's Note:** So we can all agree that hotmilkytea is the shittiest person in the TMNT fandom. Her drabbles are like a pox on our house, riddling us with despair and debilitating angst. Her latest work is no different, featuring a SAINW Donnie in a _god damn_ wheelchair. After I expressed my displeasure, she sent me the following text:

"See, the most important question is, 'Can Donnie in a wheelchair still get it up?'"

Like any normal person, I immediately read this text as a challenge. And this fic is my response to said question. Everyone blame tea for making me write wheelchair turtle porn. Happy Holidays, fandom!

* * *

"What do you mean he's back?" April ruffled the graying strands of her pixie cut in utter bewilderment.

"Yea, just walked back in with Leo. Called me 'Dondon' as if nothing had happened." The lingering shock in Donatello's voice was like that of a man recalling an outrageous dream. Distant, yet undeniably present. "He even _looked_ the same. Hadn't aged a day."

"Well, where's Michelangelo now? Can I see him?!"

"Out with Leo," the turtle in the wheelchair looked away. "I had…uh…mentioned Raph so Mikey wanted to…."

"Pay his respects," she finished where he trailed off. He loved that about her; always strong when he couldn't be. Her calloused hands gently rubbed his shoulder in silent comfort. There was a time when her hands were actually smooth. How he would marvel at her peachy-pink skin and delicately manicured fingers. All from a shy distance, of course.

_How strange,_ he internally jolted. Memories he thought long dead were now back. _Must be Michelangelo._

"I guess I'll have to just wait until he gets back then." He could hear the slightest tremble in her voice, as she busied herself with his medication.

It was the ritual. His joints often ached so badly, he couldn't even treat his old injuries. Donatello watched as his bestfriend knelt beside him. Her hands, now wind-weathered and blistered, carefully removed the metal cap right where his left knee used to be. His eyes drifted towards the rotting ceiling. No matter how many times she'd done this for him, he could never bear to watch her hands, the hands he'd give his life to see unharmed and pristine again, clean the scars and dirt off that ugly stump. "Leo and Mikey should be back in an hour or so," he liked to distract with small talk instead. "They didn't leave that long ago."

"Right," April worked quickly and dextrously. The cooling sensation of the antiseptic penetrated his skin, followed by the familiar needle prick delivering the serum for his phantom pain. A temporary relief, but he was always grateful.

When the stump finally stopped throbbing, he silently nodded, signalling April to rub a salve on his wrists. Arthritis? Injuries that hadn't healed correctly? Donatello had many diagnoses for himself. Almost as many as the unfinished project blueprints that lined his walls. As time went on, the injuries hurt him in ways he'd never imagined. The lines he drew were no longer as straight, the angles not as precise, and there were more breaks more often. On bad days, even holding a wrench hurt.

But at least when she worked on his hands, he could look her in the eye. What he saw tonight, however, put a rock in his chest.

"Why are you crying, April?"

"I-I just can't believe it. Mikey…." her voice was too thin. "He's back and…there's just…these feelings of hope. I haven't felt this in so long. It's o-overwhelming." A sudden sob racked her frame, and she quickly turned away.

"I know," Donatello felt a lump rise in his own throat. Ignoring the sharp pains in his wrist, he gently held her chin and turned her towards him. April looked as one would expect of a woman who had seen far too much death. Still, in Donatello's eyes, she remained so very beautiful. He suspected he could never grow tired of looking at her, regardless of how tired she really was. "I know," his voice cracked. "It's going to be okay, April."

She nodded and inhaled shakily. The red in her hair began to fade years ago, but the fire in her eyes would never dim. They bore into his own, and suddenly her lips were upon his. Salted with tears, but still remarkably soft, they stopped his heart and flipped his stomach.

"A-April?"

"I'm sorry, Donnie. I just—"

He crushed his lips against hers before she could backpedal. He wouldn't let the opportunity pass. Not this time. Instead, he coaxed her tongue out with his. How many times had he imagined how she'd taste. It was a fantasy that unexpectedly died with Casey. When Donatello saw the love of his life ruined over the death of the man she loved, he was determined to never be the source of that kind of pain for anyone. Especially April. Afterall, Casey was a healthy, capable, young man when he died valiantly in battle. So what could he, an old crippled turtle, offer her? He would only be a burden, another cause for pain.

Donatello had been sure of this, as he was sure of so many other things. But that was before Michelangelo reappeared. Before hope unexpectedly resurfaced.

April's hands snaked from his shoulders to arms and down his right thigh. She thumbed at a particularly long scar that trailed off near the cusp of his lower shell. His body shivered in response. A dull, familiar want pulsed once beneath his shell. Just enough to scare. "April, it's been a long time. I don't know if I can…"

Truth be told, he hadn't touched himself for who knew how long. After all that had happened, all he had witnessed, he wasn't sure he would ever feel alive ever again.

Until now.

"It's okay," April whispered gently. "We'll just try. No pressure. We can stop whenever you want." She flipped the brakes on his wheelchair, and Donatello felt his breath hitch. There was no escape now. April pushed the armrests out and up, until they clicked parallel to the backrest that moved back two notches. It was one of the many features he'd designed in anticipation of needing more space to maneuver during close-quartered combat. Never in a million years had he thought it'd also come in handy for_ this._

"Is that okay?" April asked again, eyeing him up and down with an undeniable hunger.

He could only nod as she straddled his lap. At this proximity, she smelled of sweat and gunmetal. He tried to focus on that instead of his fingers fumbling shakily over her buttons. The unsalved wrist protested at the intricacies of the simple human garment, further humiliating him.

"No, let me." April insisted, encircling one hand around his wrist. Her thumb gently rubbed the part that hurt him most while the other made short work of the remaining buttons. "I…er…may look a little different that what you'd expect," she smiled nervously when the ratty shirt fell away.

There was no bra. Only scars adorned her torso and breasts like embellishments on a fine piece of art. Lines, light and dark, alternated in swirls and slashes on ivory skin. He took a single finger and traced a dark apricot contour towards the underside of her right breast.

"These use to be perkier too—" he silenced her nervous babbling with a pinch of her pink nipple. He rolled it carefully into a pert little peak.

"I don't know," he mumbled hoarsely. "They look pretty amazing to me." She gasped when he suckled and savored her flesh with tongue and teeth. The sounds she made fed the dull aching in his groin that soon came to a heady need.

"Take off your pants," Donatello ordered immediately. She obeyed without hesitation. Hopping off his lap, to undo her boots and cargo pants. All the while, he relished the sight of her hustling nude form. The pressure in his shell was near unbearable, but he still hadn't dropped from his shell. A pang of fear clenched his stomach. What if it had been too long? What if he couldn't?

His worries only increased when a very naked April began to kneel between his thighs. Her fingers rubbed his tautened muscles ever so softly.

"We're just trying," she reminded him carefully. "No pressure, remember?"

Donatello swallowed. "Just…just don't…" he removed her hand off the amputated leg. "Don't touch that."

There was a pause in both words and movement. He internally winced when April's hand returned to the end of the stump. "But I want to," she said with a heartbreaking sincerity. "I love every part of you, Donnie."

His head felt like it was underwater. "But…I…._this_…"

"This was because of _me._" Yes, he had pushed her that fateful day and stepped on the landmine himself. And he would do it again, in a heartbeat a hundred times over, if it meant saving her life.

"I _don't_ want pity." Hot shame burned his face and self-directed anger tightened his chest.

"You have only my love." She steadily held his gaze before pressing the most tender kiss upon the affected thigh.

The lust between his legs crescendoed into breaking point, and Donatello finally felt himself slide out from his shell. The invisible boulder lifted from his chest.

April wrapped her lips around the head of his newly exposed member and gave it a few wet pumps. Whether he could come suddenly became a question of _when_ he could come. Donatello gripped the edge of his seat as she nursed his dick with her mouth. "A-April…" he choked, when he noticed she began to finger herself with an uninhibited free hand. It aroused him further, but he didn't want her to get off alone. "Come…sit on me."

She smiled and gave his engorged member one last hearty suck before eagerly obliging. She got up off the floor and stood over his lap, legs akimbo.

"Wait," Donatello gripped her hips before she could settle over his cock. He made her watch as as he dipped a thick digit between his lips and coated it with his own saliva. Slowly he rubbed the slick finger along her slit, back and forth from opening to clit at a punishing speed, until her legs wobbled.

"D-Donnie…I need…I need—" April's breaths had become uneven like her stance, and so he extracted his finger and sunk her down over his willing cock. She was impossibly tight and warm. The world had changed, but April felt exactly as he'd always imagined. He ground himself up into her until he was buried to the root.

Then he let her do whatever she wanted — bounce greedily upon his rigid cock, kiss him sloppily, dig her nails into his biceps, twists and pull her nipples right before his very eyes. He'd let her do anything just to hear her breathy screams and his half-formed name tumbling from her lips. When she finally came, it was sudden and wet, but he loved the way her convulsing walls milked his cock. He was right after her, shooting his fluids deep within her cunt, until they both finally went limp in his chair. A rare and surreal peace soothed his limbs and aching heart.

"April…I love you," he mumbled before he could regain control of his faculties.

He was still buried in her, deflating but still buried, and he felt her muscles clench at those words. "I-I love you too, Donnie…" she sighed. He wasn't sure if it was the diminishing afterglow, but she sounded almost relieved to say it.

April draped her arms lazily over the back of his shell and simply laid. It was a simple movement with simple words, but Donatello was suddenly fortified with a new sense of promise. His eyes drifted to the rickety old desk piled high with abandoned plans, maps, and paperwork. There was one in there, one plan about the Tunneler that he never had the guts to carry out. It was too risky, but now…now with Michelangelo back and April in his arms, the potential of a better tomorrow was suddenly all too possible.

The even breathing against his plastron told him April had fallen asleep.

"It'll be okay," Donatello found himself whispering to no one in particular. "Everything will be okay."


End file.
